


Ask Dean: The Scottish Nurse, Fights, and Fond Memory

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [117]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Askbox Fic, Drabble, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Grumpy Dean, M/M, Post-Series, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 11:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12982656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: Readers ask Dean from TCV their questions. He attempts to answer them.





	Ask Dean: The Scottish Nurse, Fights, and Fond Memory

**Hi Dean. I'm a nurse from Scotland and the job is super stressful at times. What do you do to relax and chill out after a hard day? PS - you and Sam are my favourite couple ever! Xx**

 

Scotland, you say? Interesting. You may get this a lot, but kilts. Yes or no? Okay, specifically, me in a kilt. Yes or no? I don’t know if the world is ready for that yet, but I am. Pants suck. 

Before I get into this, I have known several nurses and they are all stellar people who for some reason, chose one of the hardest jobs ever. Hunters don’t usually get thanked, but we don’t have to be nice to people treating us like it’s some kind of joy to change their bed pans. Anyway. Thanks. 

I try to avoid stress. Try. Sometimes stress finds me. Like that time last summer I found this mint condition copy of a Zep record at a flea market. First pressing. Holy shit. Now, this little old lady was selling it for a ridiculous amount of money. We’re talking at least fifteen hundred–cash. Lady was not messing around. And since Sam had insisted on getting there early (ugh) so we could also go tour a temple (what the hell), I was the first to show up at her booth. But you know how freaking vinyl people are. Scum of the earth. I could see them walking up and down the rows of tables about to horn in on this beauty.

You see, a shit ton of people think they have a first pressing of Zep. They’re wrong. And stupid wrong, too. They’re easily identifiable. You got the turquoise lettering on the front cover for one. Well, it’s tough as balls to find these. I’m not saying it wasn’t worth fifteen hundred, but I’m saying fifteen hundred is a lot to justify spending on a record when you have to drive home and live with Sam. 

(I just want to take a moment here to remind people ((SAM)) of how amazing Led Zep III is, because it is. And if you ever attempt to play “That’s the Way” on guitar, major props. Helpful hint though: Page uses an alternative open-G tuning with a few basic chord shapes. You’re welcome.) 

So there I was, trying to sweet talk this lady while figuring out A) how to get that much cash out of one of the ATMs nearby, B) how to explain the withdrawal to Sam later on, C) how to convince her to wait for ten minutes while I cobbled together the money, and D) how to stop drooling over what would hopefully be *my* first pressing.

Other buyers were getting closer. Sam finished inspecting some book at the next booth over and was headed my way. Our checking account could be heard screaming in pain as I contemplated wiping it out. 

Did you know that Zep’s manager convinced the record manufacturer to dip Zep records into the same vats of acid as were used for classical music? And that those vats were cleaned a lot more often than the ones used for pop/rock? And that’s why Zep records specifically sound so good? 

I needed my record. My record that had been dipped in special acid. 

Sam took one look at the price tag and threatened me.

Not with physical force, but you know. The kind of force where he’d guarantee that I only ever slept next to the record for the rest of my life.

I mean, I could. 

But it gets kind of cold in the winter and Sam is a furnace. 

I guess to answer your question, I go hunting for new vinyl. I might organize my collection and listen to a few albums I haven’t had on rotation in a while. Maybe have a cup of black tea and a pastry while I listen and just veg out. 

And then I’ll go annoy Sam.

And sob about that first pressing that was almost, almost mine. 

-DW

 

**Hi Dean, I'll start off by saying I have the biggest crush on both you and Sam. But I have an even bigger crush on the love y'all share. :) My question is: what do you and Sam fight about the most? And how, exactly, do y'all make up ;)?**

 

Look. I’ll ignore the comments about your crush on Sam because I’m a generous, benevolent individual. And I just had a fucking amazing burger, so I’m in a good mood. 

Sam would say that we don’t fight. Not at all. We have. Spirited discussions. 

Ugh. 

We fight. It happens. I mean, what else do you expect when you live with someone that leaves laundry on the floor despite being a fully grown adult? It’s like he’s begging to be nagged at, this jerk. Or, or! Let me tell you how gross it is to clean out the shower drain once the tub is all clogged up and you have to stick your hand in a bunch of water that smells like a bunch of flowers died in it because someone buys French shampoo. French. 

It’s the little things. He thinks i add too much salt to food. I think no one should pay a hundred dollars for a bottle of shampoo. He thinks listening to NPR is a good evening. I’d rather listen to a marital guide of medical history, my favorite episodes being the ones about scurvy and scarlet fever and the fecal-oral route of disease transmission. So what if I can listen to that during dinner? It’s not gross. It’s educational, dammit.

Though okay, the tiny desk series thing is pretty cool. But other than that, NPR? Really? That’s a good evening at home? Sometimes I’ll even see him in his office with that snooze-fest on, drinking a glass of wine from a bottle that cost less than his shampoo, just laughing to himself whenever someone says something like, “Bach to basics.” 

Yeah, I know. I know. 

But I think if you’re not fighting, then someone in a relationship is always compromising or not speaking up.

And you never get a shot to have ridiculously hot post-fighting sex. That kind of sex where it starts out rough and hot and… well, okay, it stays rough and hot. You know what I’m talking about. Desperate making out. Hair pulling. Hands groping. Sam begging me to let him come. Or me begging Sam to move faster. The bed creaking. Or maybe our hands gripping onto the kitchen counter. Or holy fuck, we did this thing last week where I stood against the dryer while it was on and Sam blew me. It was warm, awesome, and those vibrations… I do not regret not fixing the dryer. 

Either way, it gets to that point where who the fuck cared about whatever we were arguing about. 

Sam is always going to leave laundry on the floor and I am never going to second guess how much salt to add to food. 

But I’m good with that. Because I am also always going to make Sam come, then grumble to him, “That was a great opera-tunity.”

Thanks for the question. 

-DW

 

**Hey Dean! What is your most fondest memory of Sam?**

 

Huh. 

What’s the right answer for this? Do I go for something nostalgic and cutesy? Or do I tell you about that one time in Wyoming. You know, there’s nothing in Wyoming. Except the memory of that one time, after we wasted some minor ghouls, and Sam was… we had… damn, it was hot.

Nah, I shouldn’t tell you about that. You wouldn’t be interested in that.

I’ll go for cutesy.

Maybe the second week after we moved into our place, we still had a shit ton of boxes to go through. Well, okay, not a shit ton, but it seemed overwhelming. We didn’t have much to bring in. What took the most time was picking out furniture.

If you think picking out furniture is an opportunity to have fun…

Get out.

No, fine, you can stay. But you’re on thin ice.

Picking out the stuff wasn’t enough. Oh no. Right after setting up delivery, Sam had us rush home and forced me to spend two hours planning where to put things. Who devotes two hours to where a couch will go? Sam does. Sam. Does.

And he doesn’t just walk around the space and contemplate. He asks me, which forces me to pay attention, and if he doesn’t get a response right away, he starts to get snippy. And if you think it’s so much fun to talk about the placement of furniture, imagine how fun it is to do so with a snippy Sam.

But okay, okay. Since all I had to do was sit on a box and say ‘yeah’ or ‘nah,’ I tried not to give Sam a hard time (that was for later). 

There was this one moment. Sam started mapping out furniture by putting down strips of blue masking tape, the kind we were using to paint the rooms. I was going to say something about surpassing the line of sanity and diving headfirst into insanity, because really? Masking tape outlines for furniture? What kind of HGTV shit had he been watching in the bunker? Or, thanks a lot Sam, now it looks like the crime scene of a furniture murderer. 

I held back. Shocker, I know. 

Just because I saw the serious look on Sam’s face. The attention and focus.

It just set in that he was doing everything possible to make the place home.

Don’t tell him, but I saved that tape. 

Thanks for the question.

-DW

**Author's Note:**

> To ask a question, submit to compo67.tumblr.com! Anon is open. :) 
> 
> If you enjoy my writing, my tumblr is also the place where you can find out how to continue supporting me outside of AO3. Thanks for reading!


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